


Cover me in rag and bone sympathy

by R_Gunns



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, M/M, Medication, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Gunns/pseuds/R_Gunns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s confused at this point, unsure why it’s Mickey that’s the most fucked up about this, Mickey who obviously needs to be consoled, Mickey who looks like he’s shaking apart at the seams. Sure, he’s been living with them for a while, and she knows that they’re fucking, but it isn’t until she watches Mickey goddamn Milkovich almost break down and cry over her brother in front of a room full of people that she gets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cover me in rag and bone sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Sorrow' by The National. Spoilers for 4x12.

Fiona feels like the ground is slipping from beneath her feet. She’s kept upright- barely, but she’d made it through prison, and was lucky enough to get out early and have a job waiting for her and things aren’t great, but she’s getting there. But obviously since they can’t catch a fucking break, that’s when everything happens with Ian. She listens to Debbie as she explains how she’d tried to get Ian out of bed, how he’d just lay there and told her to go away.

So she sits with Ian on the bed and sees echoes of Monica in his glazed eyes, sluggish movements, and she wills herself not to cry, not to break down when everyone else is so obviously terrified. Seeing her freak out wouldn't help anyone. So she gets up and tries to make everything okay. Tries to figure out what to do, tries to console the kids (because even Mickey and Mandy, who’d been forced to grow up so goddamn quickly, they’re still just kids) in any way she can but she doesn’t think she’s helping.

She’s confused at this point, unsure why it’s Mickey that’s the most fucked up about this, Mickey who obviously needs to be consoled, _Mickey_ who looks like he’s shaking apart at the seams. Sure, he’s been living with them for a while, and she knows that they’re fucking, but it isn’t until she watches Mickey goddamn Milkovich almost break down and cry over her brother in front of a room full of people that she _gets_ it. She gets that he’s in this for the long run, understands that he’s- he’s _in love_ with Ian, in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever been before, not even with Jimmy.

And she should be wary, probably, of the half a dozen scars on his knuckles, the fuck u-up tattoos on his fingers, of the prostitutes in the room above the Alibi, the wife and baby on his couch. But she finds she can’t be, not when she can see how much he cares for Ian in the panic written across his face, the desperate fear that he’ll lose him clear and plain in his every movement. His hands shake when he tries to wipe the tears from his eyes, muscles twitching as he paces back and forth and when his voice cracks as he says, desperate,

“ _Then we’ll hide the knives till he gets better_!” she knows that none of that shit matters.

So she doesn’t point out that there are other ways to kill yourself, doesn’t say that he’s stuck with this, and as long as Mickey is with him (which, she thinks hysterically, looks like it’ll actually probably be a long time) he will be too. But she also doesn’t say that what she’s seen in Monica tells her that- if he goes on meds- Ian can be stable, healthy, and _happy_ even if it won't ever go away.

It isn’t until her shift is winding down for the night and she’s wiping the diner tables clean a few days later that she properly thinks about everything she hadn’t said that day. She thinks back over what she _had_ said to Mickey and realises, guiltily, that she probably hadn’t helped things at all. She’d been scared too; images of Monica (of Ian) lying in bed for days on end; of Monica (of Ian) appearing and disappearing whenever she felt like it, of Monica (of _Ian)_ surrounded by blood on the kitchen floor all flashing like clockwork through her brain. So when she’d explained things it was all focused on the worst-case scenario and maybe… if luck is on their side for once, it won’t be that bad. She takes out her phone and texts Ian, assuming that Mickey will be the one to answer.

                               Sent 00:16  
can i come over? need to talk.  
  


The reply comes almost instantly.

Ian                          Sent 00:18  
ok  
  


She blows out a breath, relieved that Mickey is at least willing to let her talk to him. To explain. Ian isn’t stupid, he’s not addicted to drugs or alcohol and he’s _not Monica_. She says this to herself on repeat as she makes her way over to the Milkovich house, willing it to be true.

The house is quiet when she gets there, the TV on but muted, Mandy asleep on the couch in front of it. She thinks that Mickey’s wife and the baby must already be in bed, assumes the same for Mickey and Ian so she forgoes knocking on the door, pushing it open as quietly as she can. The lights are off but she can see them, highlighted by a streetlight outside, curled together on the bed. Mickey is half sitting, propped up against the headboard and fiddling with the phone in one hand, the other absently threading through Ian’s hair. Ian is slumped in his lap, snoring softly.

Fiona hesitates in the doorway, feeling awkward and intrusive (and ready to leave) when Mickey notices her. He puts the phone down, motioning for Fiona to sit at the end of the bed while he stretches an arm out to try and grab the pack of cigarettes that lay discarded on the floor. He could probably reach them himself, but Fiona grabs them anyway, lights one for herself first before leaning forward and doing the same for him. He stares at her for a while, exhales smoke through his nose, hand still carefully stroking through Ian’s hair.

“So you gonna talk or what?” He asks finally, probably intending to sound irritated but instead falling more on the side of wary, tired. If she was someone else she thinks she might pity him (She heard about him coming out from Kev, listened to Vee’s fond retelling of the whole thing when Kev ‘told it wrong’. She heard from Lip and Debbie how content they were the day after, how much they’d both smiled. And she knows they only had half a dozen days of happiness before Ian crashed).

But she’s not, so she doesn’t. Instead she just says,

“I was wrong, before. What I told you-” but he cuts her off before she can finish,

“I know. I looked it up online,” and when she tries to say sorry he just shakes his head, says “Don’t bother, it’s not like Monica was a healthy example or anything. But I looked it up online and I get it. Shitty but treatable. Without meds he’s probably fucked, but that depends how bad it is. He might not need ‘em.” He stops for a second to take a drag of his cigarette, sighs. “He probably does. But we can handle it. Not as bad as a psych ward though, right?” and she flinches,

“I didn’t- I _still_ don’t really understand it. Like you said, we only ever saw Monica’s experience with the whole thing, and she was nowhere close to ‘handling it’. But she was fucked up even without the bipolar shit, right? The coke and the booze didn’t exactly help. Ian’s not like that.” And it’s Mickey’s turn to wince, now, stubbing his cigarette out on a stray magazine and looking down at Ian,

“He’s maybe a little like that. He’d been taking all sorts of shit from the guys at the club, kept him going when he couldn’t sleep. Though I guess he’s stopped that now that-” he trails off, gestures at the bed, and the unspoken _now that he can’t get out of this fucking bed except to piss_ hangs in the air. Ian twitches in his sleep then, grumbling and turning his face into Mickey’s stomach. They both watch him in silence, awkward and unsure how to act towards each other without Ian as a buffer.

“You’ll look after him though? You’ll make sure he’s fine?” She asks finally, cursing herself for sounding so uncertain when really she wanted to make that a statement. Mickey closes his eyes, slumping further in the bed and for a second she thinks he’s gone to sleep, but then he says, voice barely a whisper,

“Yeah. I got him.”

She stays there probably longer than she should, watching them sleep. She likes how soft they both look; likes that all the shit that wears them down during the day doesn’t cross over into sleep. So she sits there, cross-legged at the end of the bed till weak light begins to filter through the window. Then she gets up and makes her way home.

*

She gets a text a few days later from Ian’s phone again. (She wonders if Mickey even has one)

Ian                          Sent 14:55  
went 2 clinic. def bipolar needs meds but will b free  
  


                               Sent 14:58  
ok. you stealing the meds?  
  


Ian                          Sent 15:01  
nah government thing will pay 4 it but has 2 go therapy as well  
                               

  
She breathes a sigh of relief, feeling less tense than she has in days (Months, if she thinks about it). Everything is okay. Mickey managed to get Ian up and to the clinic, and they thought that Ian was stable enough to be able to function fine with just meds. History isn’t going to repeat itself. Ian isn’t Monica. He has meds, and he has his family, and he has Mickey. He’ll be fine. She looks at her phone, not sure if she can ever get across to Mickey how grateful she is for how good he's been to Ian. So she settles for

                               Sent 15:23  
thank you

 

It's enough for now.


End file.
